Читать книгу Only a Girl: or, A Physician for the Soul - Wilhelmine von Hillern - Страница 6

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In the mean time Ernestine had pursued her way. She walked slowly on through the extensive fields in the glare of the four-o'clock sun, whose rays were broken by no friendly tree or shrub. The waist of the dress which she had outgrown was so tight that she was frequently obliged to stand still and recover her breath. The perspiration rolled down her poor worn little face. The sunbeams felt like dagger-points upon her weary head; but she could not go back: fear of her father was more powerful than the torments she was enduring. Better to be pierced by the sun's rays than struck by her father's hard hand. Still, she could not help weeping bitterly that every one seemed so unkind to her. What had she done, that her father should hate her so? It was not her fault that she was so ugly and not a boy. "Ah, why am I a girl?" she sobbed, and sat down upon the hard, sun-baked clods of earth among the brown, dried potato-plants. She clasped her knees with her arms, and pondered why boys were better than girls, wondering whether she could not learn to do all that boys could. The schoolmaster had often told her that she had more sense and learned her lessons better than the boys. What was it that she needed, then? Strength, boldness, courage! Yes, that was a good deal, to be sure; but could she not make them hers in time? She thought and thought. She would exercise her strength. She had once read of a man who carried a calf about in his arms daily, and was so accustomed to his burden that he never noticed how the calf increased in size and weight, until at last he bore a huge ox in his arms. She would do so too; she would accustom herself at first to the weight of little burdens, and go on increasing them until at last she could carry the very heaviest. And she could be bold too, if she only dared, and if her shyness would only wear off. Then, she hoped, her father would be quite content with her. She sprang to her feet comforted and walked on. Her mind was made up. She would be just like a boy.

At the end of an hour Ernestine reached a beautiful and extensive grove, through which she passed, and entered a garden, at the end of which stood a charming country-house. Upon the wide lawn in front, a merry throng of children were running and leaping hither and thither, and from the fresh green a sparkling fountain tossed into the air a crystal ball. At the open doors of a room leading out into the garden sat a company of elegantly-dressed ladies and gentlemen, and servants in rich liveries were handing around refreshments upon silver salvers. Ernestine stood as if dazzled by all this pomp and splendour. She dared not approach. How could she? To whom could she turn? No one came towards her; no one spoke to her. Her embarrassment was indescribable, when suddenly the beautiful, gaily-dressed children on the lawn broke off their play and looked towards her with astonishment. Ernestine saw how the little girls nudged each other and pointed at her. She distinctly heard some say to the others, "What does she want?" She was almost on the point of turning round to run away, when she was observed by the group of ladies and gentlemen, and a servant was dispatched to ask whom she was looking for. Everything swam before her eyes as the tall man with such a distinguished air stepped up to her and asked sharply, "What do you want here?"

"Nothing," replied Ernestine; "I would not have come if I had known!"

"Who are you, then?" asked the servant

"I am Ernestine Hartwich."

"Ah, indeed!" he said, with a slight bow; "that's another affair; you are invited. Permit me." With these words he conducted the passive child to the ladies, and announced, "Fräulein von Hartwich!"

The looks that were now fastened upon Ernestine were more piercing and burning, she thought, than the sun's rays. Those people never dreamed that the quiet little creature standing before them was possessed of a goal so delicate in its organization, so finely strung, that every breath of contempt that swept across it created a shrill discord, a painful confusion; they only looked with the careless disapproval, which would have been all very well with ordinary children, at the straight, black, dishevelled hair, the sunken cheeks, the wizened, sharp features of the pale face, the deep dark eyes, with their shy, uncertain glances, the lips tightly closed in embarrassment, and last, the emaciated figure in its faded short dress, and the long, narrow feet and hands. In the minds of most, an ugly exterior excites more disgust than sympathy; and, to excuse this feeling to one's self, one is apt to declare that the child or person in question has an "unpleasant expression," thus hinting at moral responsibility in the matter of the exterior, as if it were the result of an ugliness of soul which would, in a measure, excuse one's disgust. This was the case with all who were now looking at this strange child. It seemed as though they were drinking in with their eyes the poison that had wasted Ernestine's little body,--the poison of hatred which her being had imbibed from her father and her unnatural surroundings, and as if this poison reacted from them upon herself. The little girl felt this instinctively without comprehending it, and as she met, one after another, those loveless glances, it was as though a wound in her flesh were ruthlessly probed. She could not understand what the ladies whispered to each other in French, but their tones intimated displeasure and contempt. She suddenly saw herself as in a mirror through their eyes, and she saw, what she had never seen before, that she was very ugly and awkward,--that she was meanly dressed; and shame for her poor innocent self flushed her cheeks crimson. In that single minute she ate of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil,--that fruit which has driven thousands, sooner or later, from the Eden of childlike unconsciousness. She had entered upon that stage of life where a human being is self-accused for being unloved, unsought,--despises herself because others despise her,--finds herself ugly because she gives pleasure to none. Hitherto, whatever she had suffered, she had been at peace with herself; now she was at enmity with herself and the world. She felt suffocated; everything swam before her sight, and hot tears gushed from her eyes. Just then a tall, stately woman came out of the drawing-room. "Frau Staatsräthin," one of the ladies called to her in a tone of contempt, "a new guest has arrived!"

"Is that little Ernestine Hartwich?" asked the hostess, evidently endeavouring to conceal behind a kindly tone and manner her amazement at the child's appearance. She held out her hand: "Good day, my child; I am glad you have come. Will you not take some refreshment? You seem heated. You have not walked all the way? Yes? Oh, that is too much in such hot weather! Such a delicate child!" she said with a look of sympathy. She sprinkled sugar over some strawberries and placed Ernestine on a seat where she could eat them, but the rest all stared at her so she could not move a finger; she could scarcely hold the plate. How could she eat while all these people were looking on? She trembled so that she could not carry the spoon to her lips.

She choked down the rising tears as well as she could, for she was ashamed to cry, and said softly, "I would like to go home!"

"To go home?" cried the Staatsräthin. "Oh, no, my child; you have had no time to rest, and you are so tired! Come, my dear little girl, I will take you to a cool room, where you can take a little nap before you play with the other children." She took Ernestine by the hand and led her into the house and through several elegant rooms to a smaller apartment, with half-closed shutters and green damask furniture and hangings, where it was as quiet, fresh, and cool as in a grove. The air was fragrant, too; for there was a basket of magnificent roses upon the table.

Ernestine was speechless with admiration at all the beauty around her here. She had never seen such a beautiful room in her life, never breathed within-doors so pure an atmosphere. The Staatsräthin told her to lie down upon a green damask couch, which she hesitated to do, until at last she took off her dusty boots, heedless that she thereby exposed stockings full of holes, and when the Staatsräthin, with a kindly "Take a good nap, my child," left her, and she was alone, a flood of novel sensations overpowered her. The pain of the last few moments, gratitude for the kindness of the Staatsräthin, the enchantment that wealth and splendour cast around, every childish imagination,--all combined to confuse her thoughts. But the solitude of the cool room soon had a soothing effect upon her. The green twilight was good for her eyes, weary with weeping and the glare of the sun; she felt so far away from those mocking, prying glances; everything was so calm and quiet here that she seemed to hear the flowing of her own blood through her veins. She thought of the ironing-room and her father's gloomy chamber at home. What a difference there was! Oh, if she could only stay here forever! How can people ever be unkind who have such a lovely home! How can they laugh at a poor child who has nothing of all this!

But the Frau Staatsräthin, whose room this was, was kind. Ah, how kind! Yet so different from every one at home--so--what? So distinguished! Yes, every one at home seemed common compared with her, and Ernestine herself was common, although the lady had not treated her as if she were; she felt it herself; and was ashamed. What if the lady could have seen how naughty she had been to-day, how she had torn off her dress and stamped upon it, and scolded Frau Gedike?

She blushed at these thoughts, and resolved never again to conduct herself so that she should be ashamed to have the Frau Staatsräthin see her. A new sense was suddenly awakened in the child; but it fluttered hither and thither like a timid bird, terrified by her late surroundings, and not yet accustomed to all that was so novel about her.

The child never dreamed of the innate refinement that distinguished her from thousands of ordinary children; she was only crushed as she compared herself with the gentle lady and the gaily-dressed children upon the lawn; and this very feeling of shame, this disgust at herself, was a proof how foreign to her youthful mind was the absence of beauty in her exterior. In the midst of all these new, confusing thoughts, sleep overpowered her; she stretched herself out comfortably upon the soft couch. The beating of her heart, the painful pressure upon her brain, and the singing in her ears, grew fainter and weaker, and soothed her to slumber like a cradle-song.

On the lawn, in the mean time, nothing was talked of but the child, and her family. It was thought inconceivable that a Freiherr von Hartwich should allow his daughter to be so neglected. But then he had never been a genuine aristocrat; for his mother was of low extraction, as was proved by her return to her own rank of life after the death of her husband Von Hartwich. She soon after married the widower Gleissert, thus giving her son a master-manufacturer for a father, then purchased her husband's heavily encumbered factory, which she had bequeathed to her son with the condition that he should continue to keep it up,--a condition most distasteful to the heir. Gleissert had a son by his first marriage, named Leuthold, who had studied, but had not been much of a credit to his brother, with whom he was living at present.

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of an elderly gentleman, who drove up in a very elegant but very dusty carriage. The number of orders upon his breast testified to his high position, and the haste with which the hostess went forward to receive him, and the trembling of the hand which she extended towards him, showed of what importance his arrival was to her.

"Vivat!" he cried out to her. "Your Johannes takes the first rank--a splendid examination--there has not been such another for ten years!"

"Thank God!" said the Staatsräthin, with a long sigh of relief.

"Yes, yes!" the kindly voice continued. "A superb fellow! I congratulate you upon such a son--not a question missed--not one! And answered with such ease and confidence, yet without the slightest particle of conceit. Deuce take it!--I wish I had married and had such a son. Come," he said, turning to a boy of about fourteen years of age, who had arrived with him, "perhaps you may one day be such another,--keep your eyes steadily upon Johannes. Permit me, dear madam, to present to you the son of my late friend, Ferdinand Hilsborn. He lost his mother a few months ago, and is now my adopted son."

The Staatsräthin held out her hand to the boy, and said with emotion, "Although I never knew your mother, it pains me deeply to know that she left this world before she could enjoy such a moment as your adopted father has just given me by his tidings."

The gentle boy's eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

"Only think, my dear friends," said the Staatsräthin, turning to the company, "Johannes never told me that this was his examination-day, that he might surprise me. I only learned it this afternoon from a few thoughtless words of my brother's. Our kind Geheimrath Heim has just brought me the tidings of his promotion."

The guests, with sympathy and congratulations, crowded around the proud mother, whose heart was too full to do anything but reply mechanically to their kind speeches.

"But, dear Frau Möllner," a Frau Landräthin remarked maliciously, "was it not a little strange that your Johannes should not have told you of his examination-day?--certainly a mother has a sacred right to share such hours with her son."

"When a mother's claims are held as sacred as are mine by my son," replied the Staatsräthin, with dignified composure, "he may well be left to do as seems to him best in such a matter. He wished to spare me hours of anxiety; and I thank him."

"The woman is blindly devoted to her son," the Landräthin whispered to a friend.

"She is growing perfectly childish with maternal vanity," remarked another.

"But how can any one as wealthy as the Staatsräthin allow her son to study?" said the Landräthin.

"Yes, yes!" several others joined in, "he certainly need never earn his living in such a way. Why did she not buy him a commission? 'Tis too bad for such a handsome young man!"

"Yes, yes!" the old Geheimrath called out to the ladies, as if he had heard only their last words, "Johannes is a man,--a man, although hardly twenty years old! Only such a mother could have such a son!" And he laid his hand kindly upon the Staatsräthin's arm.

"I wish every woman, left alone in the world, had such a friend as you are," she said, holding out her hand to him gratefully. "You are the best legacy left me by my dear husband. But where is Johannes? Why did he not come with you?"

"He sent me before to announce his arrival in the evening," replied the old gentleman. "He was obliged to make a few visits this afternoon. Ah," he sighed, as the Staatsräthin handed him some refreshments, "it is a hot journey hither from town,--and a tedious one too,--but it is all the cooler and more delightful when you get here." He wiped his forehead and looked around the circle with the kindly, penetrating glance of a man who sees through the weaknesses of his fellow-men, but judges them with the gentleness of a superior nature. "Well, ladies," he asked good-humouredly, "did the old doctor interrupt a most interesting conversation? I cannot believe that sitting here so silent and serious is your normal condition. What were you talking of when I arrived?"

"Of nothing very pleasant, Herr Geheimrath," said the Landräthin venomously; "we were only speaking of Herr von Hartwich and of his brother, who went wrong some years ago,--we don't know exactly how."

"I can tell you all about it, ladies," said the Geheimrath.

All instantly entreated him, "Oh, tell us; pray tell us!"

The Geheimrath began: "I was professor of medicine at Marburg when that strange occurrence took place. It was about ten years ago. Gleissert was then Extraordinarius in the university, and a young man of great ability. By his diligence and insinuating manners, he had won for himself the good-will of every one; and one of my colleagues, Hilsborn, the father of the boy whom I brought with me to-day, was his intimate friend. Their spécialité was the same, and Hilsborn filled the professorial chair which was the object of Gleissert's desire. Both were physiologists, but Hilsborn had the chair of special physiology, and Gleissert, as Extraordinarius, was occupied only with physiological chemistry. One day Hilsborn confided to me that he was upon the track of a new discovery. It would be of great importance to science if he could only succeed in carrying it out and establishing it upon a firm foundation. The difficulty in doing so lay principally in the procuring of the necessary material for his experiments,--a species of fish found only at Trieste, and which he could not procure alive. Hilsborn, a poor widow's son, lamented his want of means to travel thither and prove his hypothesis. I promised to obtain for him from my friend the minister, by the next vacation, a sufficient sum to meet his expenses, and I did so; but there was the same delay in the matter that is usual in such cases, and the necessary sum came so late that the journey had to be postponed until the following vacation, Hilsborn comforting himself with the thought that, although he must wait another six months, nothing but time would be lost. Suddenly Herr Gleissert married the daughter of a wealthy innkeeper, and begged for leave of absence for his wedding-trip. It was granted, and he was absent for four weeks. Strangely enough, his friend never heard from him during all that time; and, when he returned, we all noticed that he was unwilling to let us know where he had been. We thought he had private grounds for such unwillingness, and did not question him further. The term was over at last, and Hilsborn set off for Trieste. There he worked night and day with superhuman diligence. The result of his investigations was perfectly satisfactory, and he came back with the materials for a work which was sure to establish his fame and fortune. One day--I shall never forget it--he was in my room when the publisher sent me several new scientific papers. Hilsborn was looking through them carelessly, when suddenly he grew ashy pale. Among the pamphlets was one by Gleissert, embodying Hilsborn's idea. I was as shocked and astounded as he was. It could not be chance which led two men at the same time to so novel an idea, especially as Gleissert's course of study could not have directed him to such investigations as Hilsborn's. After a long and evident struggle with himself, Hilsborn confessed to me that he had communicated his ideas to Gleissert, and had frequently from the beginning discussed the matter thoroughly with him, without Gleissert's ever hinting even that the subject had occurred to him before. On the contrary, he was at work upon a paper upon a chemical subject, a paper which had never appeared. Difficult as it was for my high-minded friend to bring himself to it, the conviction was unavoidable that his friend had basely deceived him; for we discovered, upon close inquiry, that Gleissert's wedding-trip had been to Trieste, where he had pursued the investigations proposed by Hilsborn, and hurried on the printing of their results with the greatest haste. All outside proof of his contemptible treachery was perfect, and we were all morally convinced that he had stolen Hilsborn's idea. As pro-rector, I called him to a strict account. His defence was cunning, but not convincing. He did not attempt to deny the principal accusation brought forward, namely, the suspicious fact that he had induced Hilsborn to promise him not to impart his discovery to any one else, 'lest it should be used to his disadvantage.' He wished to be the sole depositary of the secret, that there might be no witnesses to Hilsborn's proprietorship of the stolen idea. I ask this worthy assemblage," the old gentleman here interrupted himself with indignation, "if there can be any doubt of the baseness of the man in the matter?"

"No, most certainly not, Herr Geheimrath, most certainly not," was the unanimous reply.

"Well," the narrator continued, "so we thought. We, one and all, determined to avenge poor Hilsborn, thus deprived of all his fair hopes. It is true we had no legal weapon at our disposal. Our stupid laws punish forgers and counterfeiters, but they cannot recognize the theft of the coinage of the brain. There are jails for the hungry beggar who steals a loaf; but the rogue who robs a man of his thought, the painfully-begotten fruit of his mind after years of labour, goes free. We professors undertook to do what the law does not. We published the matter far and wide in the scientific periodicals, and all handed in our resignations to the government, stating that we held it inconsistent with our honour to remain the colleagues of such a man. Of course Gleissert was instantly dismissed in disgrace, and an academic career closed to him forever. I was called away from Marburg soon after; and, since I have lived in the capital as royal physician, I have lost sight of my former colleagues. Hilsborn died after some years, and his son is now my adopted child. What became of Gleissert I do not know."

"I can tell you," said a fine-looking man, whose resemblance to the Staatsräthin declared him her brother. "I have informed myself about matters here, because I propose to purchase Hartwich's factories for my son. According to the schoolmaster, the fellow is playing a double part here also. It cannot be denied that under his guidance, and owing to his chemical discoveries, the factories have doubled in value since his arrival, for Hartwich is a very narrow-minded man, incapable, from his wretched avarice, of venturing upon any important speculation; but the way in which his brother contrives to be paid for his services is, to say the least, striking. For five years he contented himself with the salary of an overseer and free lodging--he bided his time. It came at last. One day Herr von Hartwich had a paralytic stroke, and the physicians declared that he had but few years to live. Gleissert made use of this time of helplessness, and threatened to leave the factory immediately and dispose of his discoveries elsewhere if Hartwich did not appoint him his heir. Hartwich, who of course stood more in need of him than ever, accepted his conditions, set aside that poor little girl as far as the law would allow it, and made a will in Gleissert's favour."

"He's a thorough scoundrel, that Gleissert,--a legacy-hunter, then, besides. I should like to know what the fellow holds sacred?"

"Let us ask the child about him," cried one of the ladies.

"Yes, yes," joined in several others. "It would be so interesting. Pray, dear Staatsräthin, bring the little girl here."

The Staatsräthin looked at her watch, and, finding that Ernestine had slept nearly an hour, went to fetch her. She soon returned with her, and again the child had to run the gauntlet of those piercing glances. But her rest had refreshed her, and she was not so timid.

She heard the old Geheimrath whisper to his next neighbour, "How did that stupid Hartwich ever come to have such a clever child? Look--what a remarkable head. Pity the little thing is not a boy! something might be made of her!"

His words struck to her very soul. Again she heard the same phrase,--this time from a perfect stranger, "Pity she's not a boy!"

She straightened herself, as though she had suddenly grown an inch taller, and looked up at the thoughtless speaker as if to say, "Something shall be made of me!" Then she glanced wistfully at the children who were playing ball; if she were only among them now, she would show that she could be like a boy. The Landräthin took her hand and said, "Well, my dear child, tell us something of your father. How is he now?"

Ernestine seemed surprised at the question.--"I did not ask him."

The ladies looked significantly at each other.

"Have you not seen him to-day?"

"Yes," she answered briefly.

"Do you not love your father very dearly?" the Landräthin asked further.

Ernestine paused, and then said quietly and firmly, "No!"

Her interrogator dropped the child's hand as if stung by an insect. "An affectionate daughter!" she sneered, while the rest shook their heads. "Whom do you love, then?--your uncle?"

"I love no one at home; but I like my uncle better than my father--he never strikes me!" Ernestine answered.

"Like likes like, as it seems," one of the ladies observed; the rest nodded assent, and all turned away from Ernestine.

"She is an unfortunate child," said the Staatsräthin; and arose to lead her to the children. "Angelika, here is Ernestine von Hartwich," she cried to her own little daughter, who was about nine years old; "take good care of her,--remember you are hostess!"

The children, towards whom the Staatsräthin led her protégé, scattered like a flock of birds at the approach of a paper kite. Collecting then in single groups, they whispered together, and stared at the stranger. Ernestine found herself alone, avoided by all the gay crowd which she had just so fervently admired. She played the part of a scarecrow, but with the melancholy superiority that she was conscious that she was one. She knew that she had scattered the gay circle, that she had chased away the children, that they all avoided her; and again she felt as if she should sink into the ground, her feeble limbs trembled beneath the burden of derision and contempt that she was forced to bear. The Staatsräthin cast a stern glance--which Ernestine noticed--at little Angelika, and said, "Give your hand to your new friend!"

Two of the larger girls giggled, and Ernestine heard them whisper, "A lovely friend!"

Angelika now approached Ernestine, and held out her soft little hand, but instantly withdrew it, stood mute before her for a moment, looking at the old brown straw hat that Ernestine held in her hand, then ventured one look into her eyes, and nestled confused and shy against her mother, who spoke seriously but kindly to the pretty child. She spoke in French, and Angelika answered in the same language. Ernestine was amazed. The little girl understood a strange tongue, and yet she was smaller than herself! She, who wanted to be as clever as a boy, did not even know as much as the little girl. And she had to endure their speaking before her as if she were not present; there she stupidly stood, well knowing that they were saying nothing good of her or they would have said it in German. She was weighed down by a double disgrace, that of her ignorance, and of knowing that they were speaking of her as if she were not there.

"Frau Staatsräthin," she said in a quivering voice, "I will not stay here; the children do not like me; I am too bad for them!" She turned away, and would really have gone, but little Angelika's good heart conquered.

She ran after her and held her fast: "No, no, dear Ernestine; you are not too bad for us; you are only odd--different from the rest of us. Come, we will play with you!"

Then the Staatsräthin took Angelika in her arms, and kissed her, saying, "That's right; now you are my little Angelika again, my good sweet child."